So, Isabella went through the recycling bin in the garage this week and pretty much emptied the entire blue bin and then gathered up some duct tape and various supplies and half a day later she had herself a princess castle with a working drawbridge.

Who knew that Life cereal boxes, brownie mix, and cans of peas could get so much toy mileage?

Toys? Where we’re going, we don’t need…toys.

This, friends, is the creative child.

She makes an enchantment under the sea dance out of clay.

She makes a tapestry of zoo animals with play-doh.

She thinks rainbow loom bracelets are for chumps—she makes 3D princesses and an entire S-s-s-s-s-snake family instead.

She saves up her money to buy a sewing machine—“So I can make throw pillows for my bed, of course. And maybe Anna dress. And an Elsa dress too.”

She creates galaxies with some watercolor and some colored construction paper.

And when there’s a box to be found, she turns it into a boat.

So she can sail away.

BECAUSE WE ARE THE WORST I’M RUNNING AWAY FROM HOME WHY CAN’T YOU JUST LET ME CREATE IN PEACE!!

This, friends, is the creative child.

She is so full of this uncanny ability to see things that aren’t there–to see landscapes and buildings and worlds where there is nothing. Everything has potential to be something magnificent—markers, crayons, boxes, paper, and yes, of course, even the recycling. Everything in an art project, everything can be beautiful.

But she is also so full of piss and vinegar.

That same motivation that drives her, that fuels her to constantly make something from nothing, is the same thing that makes her often so frustrating and stubborn. She’s a slob, bits and pieces of all shapes and sizes appear wherever the “Bellabomb” goes off. In her bedroom, in the basement, in the hallway, I’m pretty sure right now there are about 8,000 rainbow loom elastics sitting on the floor of my bedroom. She’s a bit of thief, making off with precious things that belong to her sister and brother and, uh, mother—in the name of artwork. “I needed that crystal, you see. It was important for this part right here. It would just be incomplete without it.” She’s sometimes a non-listener, far too emotionally invested in the piece she is working on to hear her name being called, 45 times.

She’s even afraid to go to bed—for fear that she might miss out on something creatively wonderful. No, I’m not kidding. I mean, this is the child who made an actual snow globe IN HER BED.

She’s incredibly frustrating, a lot of the time.

But then she’ll go and write me a beautifully decorated apology letter made of melty beads and lace, with a personalized dream catcher attached, and I’ll remember that this is the creative child.

And I guess I wouldn’t want her any other way.